


no compasses, no signs

by dottie_wan_kenobi



Series: Harry Potter (series) Fics [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, F/M, Injury Recovery, Lighthouse Keeper Lily Evans Potter, Lighthouses, POV Lily Evans Potter, Rating May Change, but historic reality only means something to me half of the time, illness recovery, set in the early 1900s
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26935882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottie_wan_kenobi/pseuds/dottie_wan_kenobi
Summary: “Will the light keeper be able to help, Miss…?” Lieutenant Black asks. She turns to him, catching his gaze. For all that he sounds calm, there’s a strain there, darkening in his eyes and tightening the corners of his mouth. He looks—exhausted and desperate, and obviously worse-off for his time in the lifeboat. If she knew him better, she might even say he looks scared, his fingers a little too tense on his friend’s wrist.“Evans,” she says with confidence, used to taking charge in situations like these. “Lily Evans. And seeing as I’m the light keeper, I believe so, yes.”“You’re—?” He cuts himself off quickly, eyeing her. He seems to realize this isn’t a time for stupid questions. “Never mind. I’m glad to hear it, Miss. My name is Lieutenant Commander Sirius Black. This is Lieutenant James Potter,” he says with a gesture to the injured man, “and that’s Officer Remus Lupin. The one off to get the lifeboat is Seaman Peter Pettigrew.”--Set in 1908, this is a lighthouse-keeper!Lily and sailor!James AU where James, injured and sick, recovers in Lily's bed. In the meantime, they grow closer together, learning about each other's lives and finding that, while they make great friends, they both want more.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Series: Harry Potter (series) Fics [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799116
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	no compasses, no signs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redundantoxymorons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redundantoxymorons/gifts).



> My friend [Isabelle](https://redundantoxymorons.tumblr.com/) saw a post I reblogged (and cannot find, rip) of a lighthouse and DMed me saying, "Oh my god I just saw that post I need a jily lighthouse keeper & stranded sailor au and I need it NOW (not that you should write it I mean I just want it to exist so that I can read it)"  
> Well babe I wrote it!! (Some of it. I'm sorry updates for this are probably going to be slow :(( I just wanted to get this first one out after sitting on it for. months.)
> 
> Many many thanks to my amazing beta and friend, [whateverrrrwhatever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whateverrrrwhatever/pseuds/whateverrrrwhatever)!!! Couldn't have done it without you <3
> 
> Some of this is realistic to the time period/setting but sometimes I just. gave up trying and wanted it to be fun and tropey rather than 100% correct
> 
> Title bastardized from "Invisible Strings" by Taylor Swift. I apologize for the bad summary, I'm hopeless kdsfakjh

Lily’s days start in the early afternoons; she wakes slowly, cuddling further into her comfortable nest of blankets, and lingers as long as she can without falling back asleep. For long moments, she sits upright in bed, blinking around at her small room, enjoying the familiar sight of her own space. Her cat, Poppy, wakes up with her, stretching and yawning and basking in the natural light her windows let in. Often, Lily is distracted by the kitty’s adorable little face, rubbing behind Poppy’s ears and underneath her chin, content by the sound of her purring. 

Once they finally get up, she takes her breakfast at a time most would consider far too late for a late lunch. Until sundown, which, thankfully, comes later and later as spring settles in, she spends time reading books and writing letters and petting Poppy some more. On cloudy or stormy days, she skips this routine and heads right up to the light, but today she takes her time, making a simple meal for her dinner and brewing a strong tea to hold her through the night. All the food here is long lasting, the utensils similarly made more for convenience than appearance. Made of tin, they’re easy to carry and easy to wash. She left the beautiful china—with grand floral designs in red and blue hand painted by her grandmother—stored away in a unit in the town, and it’s been a long time since she last used any of it.

With her plate in one hand, her cup in the other, she treks up the stairs. Poppy accompanies her to the top, sticking close to the railing and bounding up the steps ahead of her, then turning around to meow and beckon her forward before doing it again. They pass the small bedroom, taking the last small flight through the open door to the light.

It, like the bedroom and stairs, is also small. The lower half of the walls are made of sturdy blocks, painted a muted white, while above that—extending to the ceiling well above her head—is glass. A door near the steps leads out onto the thin metal balcony that circles the whole lens room. Inside, the light is situated in the middle, lifted by a sturdy brass pole so that it’s level with the glass. 

A tiny desk sits on the side which faces the land, the rickety and uncomfortable chair that goes with it long replaced with something a bit more soft, a new-to-her armchair with a cozy yellow cushion. It’s a cane-back, comfortable enough but not to the point she could fall asleep in it. It’s against the rules, technically—there aren’t supposed to be any objects on which she can recline in the watch room—but her direct overseer, Minerva McGonagall, has long turned a blind eye to it. 

Lily has never fallen asleep on the job, not in the years she’s been working it, nor has she ever been late. She’s long learned how to stay up all night and all day, taking naps where she could, riding out the strong coastal storms with help from the assistant light keepers McGonagall insists on sending.

They’ll not be needed today, she notes, looking out the large windows. It’s a bit cloudy, but it’s not yet dark, the setting sun shining on the horizon, the water reflecting shades of orange and yellow as far as she can see. Sitting at the desk, she sets her plate and mug down and pulls open the journal.  _ April 3rd, 1908 _ , she writes at the top. Though she hardly has need to, she adds under it,  _ Light Keeper Lily Evans. Light and lens room glass cleaned at 6:34 PM. Wicks cut. _

Then she’s back up, grabbing the duster and a jug of vinegar to clean the glass, and whiting for the brass that holds it. It takes several minutes to dust and clean the lens, wipe the brass, and trim the wicks. Next, she scrubs the windows, inside and out, taking a scant few moments here and there to enjoy the warm breeze. Once she’s back inside, Lily makes note of the time and shakes a match out of the box, strikes it, and carefully lights each of the wicks.

After giving the light a push to get it started, she stays a moment to be sure it’s working correctly before moving back to her desk. She settles back into her chair, sinking delightfully into the cushion. She takes a sip of her tea, then pulls open the log book. Carefully, she writes down more details of the cleaning, writing the specific time of the lighting, and describes the weather as well—the sky somewhat clear, slowly deepening into the night. She pauses only to duck down and give Poppy a scratch. The darling kitty is a baby still, only a year old, but is already accustomed to this routine, lounging by Lily’s feet and giving herself a lazy bath.

With all that done, she steps back out onto the balcony to look out on the water, gripping her tin cup and leaning back against the wall. She kicks her feet out ahead of her to stretch her legs, roll her ankles, curl her toes into her boots. Even after years of this—of being a light keeper, of living alone in the lighthouse, having every freedom she could possibly want—she finds herself taking moments to appreciate it. Especially with a peaceful sight like this, she thinks, breathing in the salty air.

The lighthouse, settled on a cliff a few miles from the small town of Godric’s Hollow, is so different from the place she grew up. Her childhood home was cozy, her parents providing a stable upbringing with many happy memories that Lily still thinks about sometimes. She remembers mornings with delicious breakfasts of toast and eggs and juice, and summers spent playing games in the garden. In the early springs, when the days were cool and getting longer as they are now, the whole family would go on walks in the nearby park, letting the sunshine and birdsong relieve their stresses.

But it’s hard to think of those days without also thinking of the devastation of her parents’ death; her sister Petunia, who still refuses to speak to her, seven years on; and Severus Snape, the infatuated neighbor boy who followed her to Godric’s Hollow despite her wishes. Downstairs on her personal desk, there’s a letter from a cousin asking if she’ll be attending Petunia’s wedding, for which she hasn’t received an invitation, and another from Severus asking for forgiveness she doesn’t want to give. 

Here in the lighthouse, she lives alone but for Poppy, every inch of the space hers. The only memories she has are attached to the beautiful blue armchairs in the sitting room, which were her uncle’s. Most of her things these days were once someone else’s, including the chairs, though she can’t say she’s complaining. He was the one to pass the lighthouse, and the lightkeeper’s duty, down to her as his father had to him, and so on and so forth, for several generations. As a child, she visited and sat in his lap in the big blue chair, and he told her fantastic stories about the storms he weathered, the things he found washed up on the shore.

“Have you met any mermaids?” She asked once, perched on his leg with stars in her eyes. Petunia stood nearby, her arms folded, an envious little scowl turning the corners of her mouth down. “Have you seen a whale before?”

He’d pondered thoughtfully for a moment, stroking the armrest like one might stroke their chin. “No,” he said finally, “No mermaids or whales. They can’t come too close to the shore, or they’ll get hurt on the rocks.” Poking her side to mimic the sharp rocks below, he teased, “Ouch! Ouch!”

At the time, she’d giggled, utterly fascinated by his life. When he died years later she learned he'd left the lighthouse to her in his will, she’d still been reeling from the sudden loss of her parents. Petunia had been awful in those days, her hurt manifesting in her judgmental anger, and Lily had wanted out. So she’d moved into the lighthouse, working with assistant keepers for months until she was finally able to handle the work herself.

She knows, now, that the rocks rising up out of the waves below the lighthouse hurt like hell. There haven’t been any mermaids or whales, but plenty of others with stories best told over whiskey, who wash up and rely on her to help them. For some, her quick thinking—her boots that don’t slip on the wet, sharp points, and her extensive first aid kit—means the difference between life and death.

She takes her job very seriously. The pleasures and freedoms it affords are simply bonuses, certainly enjoyed but never so far as to interfere with her duties. 

With a sigh, Lily takes a long sip of her tea and looks out over the waves. It’s hard to see much of the shore from where she sits, but she can see the sun painting the ocean golden and orange, faint outlines of birds flying around. But there’s something else too, a foreign object that doesn’t look quite right floating in the direction of the light.

Lily stands straight, stepping closer to the railing to see better. Whatever it is, it’s far away, small, dark. From this distance, the shape of it is incomprehensible.

Maybe it’s a seal—except they don’t come around here often. Maybe it’s flotsam or jetsam, or a body, or a lifeboat. Unlikely, she thinks, as she hasn’t heard of any wrecks that would send debris washing up on her shore. Still…it’s concerning.

Poppy meows as Lily abruptly comes back inside, startled by the quick movements. Lily coos at her while she moves to the desk, crouching down and rooting under it for the telescope. She finds it on top of the box of writing supplies, closed up. Grabbing it, she extricates herself from underneath the desk and stands. She circles back around the light quickly and steps outside, extending the telescope while she goes, turning toward the water as she brings the glass up to her eye.

Fortunately, it’s not very dark yet, and she’s able to make out a better image. Unfortunately, what she sees has her scrambling to grab her kit and hurry down the steps and out of the lighthouse.

It’s definitely a lifeboat. She can’t be sure how many people are inside it, but it hardly matters now. Darting over the grass, she crosses to the stone steps which lead down the cliff, carved by her great-great-great uncle well before she was born. She descends carefully, lest she slip and render herself useless to the occupants of the lifeboat, if there are any, and leaves the kit at the bottom.

It takes time to get past the small sandy area at the foot of the steps and over the rocks, slippery with mist off the shore, but she goes as quickly as she dares, spurred on by the sound of voices calling for help. By the time the lifeboat is near enough that she can tell there are four men inside it, she’s up past her ankles in the water, letting the tide coax the boat closer.

“Miss,” calls one of them, his dark hair a tad too long for Royal Navy standard. He’s kneeling at the hull of the boat, one of his compatriots lying sprawled in the bottom of the boat before him, head cradled in the dark-haired man’s lap. Even from this distance, Lily can tell he’s unwell. “Please, can you help us? We’ve—”

“Yes, yes of course I’ll help,” Lily reassures, reaching out her hand. The shortest of the four men grabs hold, jumping out of the small lifeboat, water splashing everywhere. They don’t waste time on further introductions, though she eyes the sick man with concern. 

Together, she and the man grab the sides of the tiny rowboat and pull it towards the rocks, stopping only when the hull screams under the strain as if it's about to break apart. Panting a little, she helps hold it steady as the three men still inside stand. The one with lighter hair steps out, stumbling a little against the rocks and grabbing hold of the shortest’s shoulder, but only for a moment. He straightens quickly, reaching back to grab hold of the sick one’s upper half. Together with the one who spoke, they help him out.

“Come on,” she says once they’re all standing on solid ground. “We can bring him up to the lighthouse.”

“Thank you, miss,” the same man as before says. “We thank you kindly for any assistance you can give us. Our ship had a terrible fire some days ago, and we were thankfully able to escape—but not uninjured, as you can see.”

“Yes, I can,” she says from his side, glancing around him to the man being propped up by his two shipmates. He’s blinking in the settling light, using one leg to try and hobble forward while the other hovers a few scant inches above the ground. “Did he break his leg, then?”

“We think so. Ah, do you have anything we can splint it with?” At the shake of her head, he nods decisively. “Peter, fetch the lifeboat. We’ll need the wood.”

“Yes sir, Lieutenant Black,” the shortest one—Peter—says, turning back towards the water.

“Just bring it as close to the sand as you can,” Lily adds, watching him struggle over the rocks and thinking of the steep stairs back up the side of the cliff. “I’ll bring the hatchet down once he’s settled.”

With a nod of his own, Peter steps carefully back towards the water. Lily, Lieutenant Black, and the other two sailors make it to the sand without speaking again, focusing on keeping even footing. Once they get to the stairs, Lieutenant Black looks up to the lighthouse, a beacon perched on the promontory high above them, and then to Lily, who grabs her kit from the ground. It’s smarter, she reasons, to wait until they’re in the lighthouse to splint the man’s leg. She’s had to do it once before after her best friend had fallen from her horse, and the sight of Alice gritting her teeth in pain hasn’t left her. Better to wait until he’s settled down and won’t have to move much afterwards.

“Will the light keeper be able to help, Miss…?” Lieutenant Black asks. She turns to him, catching his gaze. For all that he sounds calm, there’s a strain there, darkening in his eyes and tightening the corners of his mouth. He looks—exhausted and desperate, and obviously worse-off for his time in the lifeboat. If she knew him better, she might even say he looks scared, his fingers a little too tense on his friend’s wrist.

“Evans,” she says with confidence, used to taking charge in situations like these. “Lily Evans. And seeing as I’m the light keeper, I believe so, yes.”

“You’re—?” He cuts himself off quickly, eyeing her. He seems to realize this isn’t a time for stupid questions. “Never mind. I’m glad to hear it, Miss. My name is Lieutenant Commander Sirius Black. This is Lieutenant James Potter,” he says with a gesture to the injured man, “and that’s Officer Remus Lupin. The one off to get the lifeboat is Seaman Peter Pettigrew.”

While Potter doesn’t react much, just looking up at her and tipping his head back in acknowledgment, Lupin gives her a small smile. She returns it to put him at ease, but doesn’t linger long, figuring they’ll have time later to talk more.

“I would say it’s nice to meet you all, but I’m sure we can agree these aren’t the best circumstances,” Lily replies, trying for levity.

“Definitely not,” Black says, and he doesn’t sound quite as matter-of-fact as before. Sardonic, she thinks. “Shall we?”

She gestures them forward, wanting the hold the rear in case any of them slip. No chance of saving all of them, but she can at least try, and leave Lupin and Black to focus more on Potter than their own steps. “Careful,” she says, “It’s a bit slippery.”

They’re quiet on the way up. But there’s a moment when Potter mumbles, “What’s happened?”, and Lupin shushes him. 

“Save your breath, James,” he says. 

It’s the first time she’s heard either of them speak, and for some reason, they don’t sound as she expected. But then, Potter’s hardly enunciating, his voice quiet, and Lupin’s voice is just shy of a wheeze, which was more apparent when he spoke. She wonders how long they’ve been at sea, how long since they last had any water, and with another look at Potter, just how sick he is.

Her thoughts drift away from them, and she wonders—hopes against hope—that she has enough for them. Enough food, enough space, enough first aid supplies. More than that, she hopes she can remember to check the time when they get in, knowing it’ll need to be recorded in the log. McGonagall won’t be happy to hear she’s left the light alone for so long, but she can see the beam sweep across the surf from her vantage point on the steps. It's fine, for now. And Poppy isn’t a worry—she knows better than to be in the lens room without Lily there as well.

Near the top, Potter slips, landing on his injured foot in an attempt to catch his balance. Black and Lupin immediately grab him tighter, and Lily throws her free hand out, brushing his back as he groans in pain. 

“M’fine,” he slurs after a few moments in which none of them move, “m’ _ fine _ .”

Black hesitates, but only briefly, only just long enough for her to notice before they’re continuing.

When they crest the stairs, Lily goes on ahead of them, pushing the door of the lighthouse open and scooting the armchairs to the walls to clear a path. “There’s a bed up the steps,” she says, watching Potter pale slightly at the thought of more climbing. “He can rest there for now.”

They go without comment, exhaustion lingering around their eyes and shoulders. Potter looks even worse now than he did before, and after another look, she realizes that the others appear worn down as well, a bit gaunt in the face, jaws clenched.

But she’ll have to worry about them later. Going to the trunk just beside the small kitchen area, she pulls it open. She digs around for the hatchet and brings it out, thinking of Peter Pettigrew still down on the rocks by himself with the rowboat.

Before she can head back out, Black comes back down the stairs, exhaling loudly and pushing his fingers through his hair. Before she can ask if he’s alright, he spots the tool in her hands. “I’ll take that,” he says, reaching out for it.

“Try not to take too long, Lieutenant,” she replies, giving it to him. “The rest of you need to be checked over too.”

“Call me Sirius, Miss.”

He’s gone before she can say more, or invite him to call her Lily, no “Miss” required. Well, nothing to be done about it now. 

She takes the medical kit to her room. Potter is laid out on her bed, Lupin sitting by his side. Potter seems to be unconscious, or at least tuned out from his surroundings, while Lupin is at least aware—Lily can see his hands are shaking, his eyes trained somewhere above Potter’s head. 

It’s not the first time she’s had to treat people inside the lighthouse, or even the first time she’s treated someone laying in her bed, though it’s not exactly been a common occurrence. Most times, if the patients are poorly enough, she sends off a telegram to the town so someone can come retrieve them. She’s confident in her abilities to help Potter’s leg, in giving Lupin and the others food and drink—but she wonders how long they’ll end up staying, and if they’ll need to go to the small hospital in Godric’s Hollow. Alice had needed to.

Lupin finally notices her waiting in the doorway, twisting away from where he’s bent over Potter on the bed. “Ah, Miss Evans—”

“Lily,” she corrects, setting the kit down on her desk. What will she need for the splinting? Scissors and bandages, and something soft, too. Grabbing the necessary supplies, she circles to the other side of her bed, leaving the roll of bandages aside for now. “Officer, can you grab one of the pillows?”

“Remus,” he says in the same tone she’d taken a moment before. Then, he pats Potter’s face. “James, focus a moment.”

They hover for a second while Potter—Lily wonders if he’ll insist on being called by his first name as well—comes back to earth. “Wha’?”

“I’m going to have to cut your trousers,” she says, “and Remus will have to take one of your pillows.”

“Cut my trousers? Why?”

Kindly, Remus says, “You need a splint, Prongs.”

Potter blinks, a furrow creasing between his brows. He looks around the room, gazing at Lily for a long moment with an unsure look in his eyes. When he turns back to Remus—favoring his friend over a stranger, not that she can blame him—he reaches up to grab at his arm, confused and worried. “Where’s Sirius? Can’t he do it?”

“He will,” Lily says. She tries to sound soothing, like how her mother used to when she was sick as girl. She knows it isn’t easy for people to feel comfortable here, having survived tragedies and hardships, and being injured certainly doesn’t help. His confusion is part and parcel of dehydration, and she reminds herself to check for other symptoms in all of them later. “He and Peter are getting some wood to use. In the meantime, we need to get your leg ready for it, which means cutting your trousers.”

Potter stares at her, then turns to look at Remus again, who nods sagely. With an inhale, Potter leans up on his elbows and says, “Alright, then.”

Lily tries to go quickly, carefully pulling the fabric from his boots and holding it as high as she can over his flesh without hurting him. The scissors work well, even though the trousers are soaked in sea water, and soon enough there’s a slit up to his knee. She parts the two sides, hesitantly touching his skin where she can see an awful, dark purple bruise lingering. He hisses in pain, and she backs off, but doesn’t apologize.

“Is it bad?” He asks after a moment, tension clear in the line of his shoulders, his clenched jaw.

“Not terribly so,” Remus deducts, peering at the injury.

Lily remembers Alice’s leg, how the bone had broken through the skin. He’s lucky, really, and she’s glad for it—he doesn’t deserve to hurt any more than he already does, and she wouldn’t be able to treat him anyway. They’d have to wait for a doctor from the town to come, like they did with Alice. She doesn’t tell either of them any of this, preferring to listen to them murmur back and forth as she busies herself with setting the pillow Remus selected aside.

Sirius and Pettigrew come in soon after, arms full of slabs of wood at the ready. Lily steps back towards her desk to make room for them. Sirius explains, “We weren’t sure how long it’d need to be.”

“Well, come on and let’s see,” Remus says, gesturing Sirius over and leaving Lily and Pettigrew alone for a moment.

“You can call me Lily,” she says before he has a chance to say anything.

“I’m Peter, then,” he replies with a weary smile.

“Are you alright? Do you want to sit down?”

“No, mi—Lily, I mean. I’m fine, and I’d rather be with James.”

Accepting this—if there’s one thing she’s learned about young men, it’s that they’re quite loyal to their friends—she turns back to the bed. Sirius and Remus have taken Potter’s boots off and are discussing which length of wood would be best when she approaches, and quickly the matter is resolved. Gingerly, Remus lifts James’ leg up to bend at the knee, tucking the pillow around the back. Sirius holds the wood to either side, the pillow protecting his skin from splinters, while Peter lays a comforting hand on Potter’s shoulder, pressed once again to the mattress.

“Ready?” Lily asks, tucking bandage between the pillow and the fabric of his trousers. He nods determinedly, and she begins wrapping, pausing every now and then to tuck her fingers alongside James’s skin and make sure it’s not too tight. When it’s done, she pats his other shin, saying, “All done now. You did well, Potter.”

They look at each other, and there’s a flush on his cheeks—she can’t tell if it’s because he’s hot, or sick, or in pain. “Call me James.”

“Then you can call me Lily,” she smiles. “You too, Sirius.”

He tips his head to acknowledge her, before turning back to James. “You did good, Prongsie,” Sirius says, a comforting and fortifying strength in his voice. 

“Really good,” Peter adds.

Remus looks between them, smiling encouragingly at Potter before turning to her. “Thank you, mi—Lily. I don’t what would’ve happened if not for—“

Sirius and Peter join in, then, interrupting him to offer their own thank-yous. Deflecting them, she returns to the kit, tucking the excess bit of bandages back and giving them a moment more or less alone. But they don’t talk, the only sound coming from any of them being a sigh from Sirius. She turns back then, coming to stand beside the bed again.

“Does it feel alright?” She asks again, tucking her fingers inside the bottom hem of the wrappings, looking for a pulse. “Can you feel your toes?”

He wiggles them, a silly look of concentration on his face. “All accounted for,” he reports with the air of someone speaking to their superior officer. 

She laughs at him, this broken confused young man in her bed, and it doesn’t occur to her once to wonder just what he might come to mean to her.

**Author's Note:**

> U can find me on tumblr at [dottie-wan-kenobi](https://dottie-wan-kenobi.tumblr.com). If you liked this, please consider leaving a comment. Thank you!! <333


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